


The Mandalorian Taxi Service

by An_Ode



Series: The Mandalorian Taxi Service [6]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Beta'ed by the best, Complicated Relationships, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, Found Family, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Moral Ambiguity, NOW WITH BABY YODA, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Read the one-shots first!, Sass (so much sass), She's got issue ok?, Slow Burn, Time Jump, and Everything else, and Mandalorians, cursing, full length, making shit up about space, multi-chapter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2021-01-28
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:13:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27462514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/An_Ode/pseuds/An_Ode
Summary: After spending the past four years on one ship, you'd prefer freely slipping from one trade ship to another. But you're broke and alone and this could get you back on your feet, temporarily.You know you'll accept his offer the moment you slide your gaze to the little bundle in his arms, because fuck if that little green guy isn't the cutest thing you’ve ever seen.-OR-You've got issues, he's got issues, but maybe, just maybe, together you can keep the little green one alive.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Original Female Character(s), Din Djarin/Reader, Din Djarin/You
Series: The Mandalorian Taxi Service [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1711711
Comments: 79
Kudos: 306





	1. On Matters of Fate

**Author's Note:**

> Ya'll it is time - full length story time. Allow this intro chapter to be my apology for taking so long. Shout out to my amazing Beta once more! Praise be to Escher84, lest you all be forced to read the shit I churn out un-beta'ed. 
> 
> Low-key DIED laughing when I watched the latest episode - 10 guesses as to what line of dialogue got me.

You are going to kill that townie, pseudo-mayor traitor.

One day. You just want one day where you don’t have to be the bigger person, where you aren’t responsible for the misconduct of others. It is too much to ask for apparently. Even when you were a _damn_ _space pirate_ you had to police others, step in when needed. Would that ever end?

The mud is thick on your boots, the small burns from flying embers becoming singed pockmarks on your jacket and shirt. The wind is high, whipping through you like a pickpocket looking for change. Your body gives a harsh shudder, not entirely recovered from its recent blood loss.

Sighing loudly, you fix your eyes back on the path ahead. To continue the inspection of your favorite jacket would bring nothing but a dejected ball of lead to settle in the pit of your stomach. You’ll let it go, you will.

After you punch him in the face.

You are less than twenty minutes from town when you hear someone call out behind you. Irritation flares through you as you turn and see Kiki running as fast as her little legs can carry her. The soot in her hair darkening it from bright gold to mousy brown.

“I want to come with you!”

“I told you to stay and help the others,” you tut as she approaches. The lack of heat behind your words is unavoidable. After everything she and the other kids in this Maker-forsaken town have been through, the least you can do is watch the bite of your words. Well, the least you can do is release them from slavers and blow up the cargo ships that take them off world; but you’ve already done that, so now it was holding back the bite of your words.

“You don’t get between me and Giliber, understand?”

“He sold us to slavers!”

“He’s twice my size and five times yours. You stay behind me.” This time your voice is stern.

“Fine.”

With that settled, Kiki makes her way next to you, matching your strides despite how much shorter she is than you.

“Who’d you leave in charge?” You ask absently.

“Friggo,” she says glibly. You give a significant side-eye. “Fine, not the cockroach,” you grimace, his nickname caught on faster than you’d meant it to. “Paveda stepped right in.”

You nod at this, eyes watering slightly as you turn to face forward towards town and inadvertently towards the raging winds. In the distance, the tips of run-aground ships begin to rise. Metal masts reach high into the sky, unmoved by water that had dried to nothing but mud pits long before your arrival a week ago.

This is not your choice of planet. The corruption runs deep, a significant inconvenience on every level. The people were uneducated and had no desire to be educated. At least, not the working age generation. Glancing down, you eye sooty hair. At least the youngers are much keener to learn about something besides mud processing.

Alas, beggars can’t be choosers. It wasn’t as if you’d _chosen_ to be shot in the side and pushed out the door of a moving ship. But still, of all the places they could have tossed you, this is probably the worst. Grenadia probably knew that too, the bitch.

“Will you kill him?” Her voice isn’t small or timid, just genuinely curious.

“Maybe.”

“He deserves it,” she grits out, and you see her pushing back the tears that rim her eyes in red.

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?! If you hadn’t been here I would be in some space brothel as they sold my virginity off to the highest bidder.” You do nothing but hum in response. She’s not wrong. “He tried to kill you too you know, when we first found you.”

“Good thing your mother patched me up and kept me out of his hands then,” you say casually.

“Glad to see you give a kriff about it,” she scoffs. 

You refrain from telling her that you don’t think there was a thing in the galaxy that could phase you at this point. That the past five years had been a certain kind of hell that eroded away the ability to give a kriff. The things you have done, the things that have been done to you, they change a person. You are no exception.

Tuning out the younger girl’s ramblings, you set your eyes on the rickety boat shack in the middle of town. You can’t see him from this far out, but you can certainly conjure the image of his rotund belly and heinous mustache. Kiki was right, the man deserved to be gutted like the fish he swindled from local villages.

For a moment you mourn the loss of your knives. Grenadia had made it a point to strip you of them before tossing you out the back ramp. Anger flares wild and hot before you can temper it. You stew for a moment, eyes narrowing into slits at the thoughtfully constructed betrayal, and then, with considerable effort, you drag it back in. You stuff it into the ever-growing box buried deep in the back corners of your mind.

It’s probably fine.

The journey continues with Kiki’s incessant chatter, but you make no move to silence her. The girl was clever, a rarity on this planet from what you can tell. Her mother, kind as she is, had not hesitated to banish the young girl from the house when on a tirade. You understand it though, recognize a younger self in her curious questions and uncanny observation.

You reach the boat house and Kiki sobers immediately.

This will be tricky. The man is respected by many, playing every angle to exploit these people. The day you’d watched him charge Kiki’s panicked mother far more than she had to retrieve the young girl–after those same men had taken her to begin with– had sealed his fate.

Thoughts swirl in your head as you step over the threshold. As your eyes adjust to the dimmer lighting, you try to decide if it is enough to maim him for life or if you will need to slit his throat and dump him in a mud pit.

Decisions, decisions.

“The Sage has returned!” He exclaims, hands flying up and around wildly. “And with young Kiki in ha–” You are on him in an instant. Twisting a gesturing arm behind his back with almost enough force to dislocate his shoulder, you just push him forward. His face lands hard, cheek smashing into the polished wood of the bait counter.

“This is how this is going to go,” you spit out, pushing as much danger into your voice as you can. “You’re going to tell these nice people what you’ve been doing with their children. Then I’m going to drag you into the town square and string you up by your incredibly swollen ankles.”

“My men–”

“Dead,” Kiki chirps. You look over and see eyes alight with so much rage it nearly startles you.

“They… we… I…”

“Six slaver ships, six chargers, one large fireball,” you explain.

“I own this town!” He argues, words muffled into the wood.

“Wrong,” you lean in close, the still healing wound on your side twinging as you do. “You _owned_ this town. Past tense.”

Yanking him up, you keep pressure on his arm and shoulder, the threat clear. With measured steps you walk him out the back doors towards the town’s square. The wind whips through every layer again, but this time you don’t notice, your attention zeroed in on a stone-carved boat standing proudly in the village square. The mast was long enough to hang him from, you’re almost positive.

“Release me or I’ll have you–” the crack of his shoulder dislocating echoes. So do his screams.

“What is going on?!” Kiki’s mother, Lorena, comes rushing forward, eyes wide and confused as you haul their mayor bodily across cobblestone.

“Your mayor has been selling your children to slavers,” you amplify your voice, causing heads to appear from behind shuttered windows and doors. “Three clicks north from here was a landing pad. His men would take your children and deliver them to his partners.”

“No, he got my Jabi back!” A man says indignantly, pulling a boy a few years older than Kiki to his side.

“And how much did that cost you?” The man shrinks back at your glare and logic, eyes casting to Kiki’s from just behind you. It prompts her to speak.

“It’s true! His men took me from our fishing hole. The slavers said they’d never seen a better set up to make a profit. Said he was ‘gifted’ in swindling people!” You turn and raise your brows at the girl. The salvers said no such thing. You give her credit for selling it though.

The murmurs that begin across the crowd grow louder as they approach, confusion turning to anger in a split second. A grim smile makes its way across your face. Leaving this man’s fate in the hands of the people he wronged felt something like poetic justice.

“You can’t trust the word of one little girl! This mad woman, who was dropped into our humble town, is nothing but a space pirate! She’s turned Kiki against us all!”

“I would give you credit for that argument if only I didn’t have another twenty kids to back it up.”

“What of my child?” A woman called, voice fragile as she stands with clasped hands, tentative hope shining through red rimmed eyes.

“Every child taken in the past fortnight is still here, still alive. Just follow the smoke.” You jerk your head, indicating to the far-off cloud rising into a green tinted sky.

“You said you’d get our children back!” A voice cries, the indignation sparking hot throughout the crowd.

As people begin to shout, eyes hard and pointed, you shove the man forward those last two steps. He tries to stop his momentum by bracing both hands against the central sculpture, crying out again as he does. You tut, he’s already forgotten about the dislocated shoulder.

He is swallowed whole in seconds, people crowding in from all sides, bellowing their anger and confusion.

You take it as your cue. Body fluid, you slip silently through the mob like water. The brushing of shoulders and hands peters out, and then, you reach the outskirts of the throng. Something deep in your stomach uncurls, and you breathe deep. Tight shoulders relax as the space around you opens up, no longer trapping you between unwashed bodies.

The steps you take rattle your bones, the wound on your side likely opening again. With a quick glance down and the smallest press of your palm to the wound reveals fresh blood swelling. A groan scrapes out, eyes caught on the bright red gleaming on your open palm. The blood loss, physical activity, and too many nights of shoddy sleep leaves you weak.

It seems to all hit at once, your body accounting for every issue in that single moment. The breath leaves your lungs in a harsh pant, and your next step is more of a stumble. Blindly you reach out, palm gripping the edge of someone’s home. Taking a moment to blink the dots out of your eyes, you press on. As you lift the palm, you leave behind a bloody handprint wrapped around the structure's corner and you freeze.

 _So much blood_ , you remember that vividly. You’d never killed anyone before, focused on improvement and empowerment, not death. Not taking people “off the board.” You cringe, body convulsing in pain as your tense muscles contract around torn skin.

“Sage?” Her voice is distant and fuzzy. “You need to lay down. Please, you’ve done so much for us. Let us help you in return.”

You turn to her dull, orange eyes and wonder where that giving nature came from, and how she kept possession of it all these years. The specifics of their village were shared with you, but the blood loss then and now makes it difficult to recall. Even without those details, you see the hardship in their stance, their thankfulness or bitterness, their bonds with their children. With a hesitant nod, you allow her to take some of your weight, walking you the short distance to her home.

As you two come through the door, your eyes land on the very familiar bed that you’d been bloodying for nearly a week. Had Kiki not gone missing, you would still be in it.

“Let’s get you cleaned up a bit,” Lorena said with a gentle voice. As she helps you out of ripped and dirtied clothing, you see her eyes taking in the various wounds that litter your skin. She doesn’t ask and a zing of fondness streaks through you at her silence.

By the time your body hits the lumpy mattress, most of your energy is suspiciously absent. You furrow your brows, confused as to the sudden tiredness. Lorena catches your eye, her brow rises in reply to your questioning look. Despite the logic of her silent argument, the fatigue feels different for the first time in years.

“Sleep, I’ll keep watch over you.” That fondness triples at her kind words, and you give a half smile, which feels more like a grimace, before letting your lids slip lower and lower until they fall shut entirely.

Sleeping is a mistake, you know better, but the darkness is calling far too gently this time around. Finally, all the tension in your body bleeds out, and you sag into the bed beneath you.

_The darkness clears, and you blink to adjust. When your eyes open again, it’s to brilliant shades of yellow, orange, and green. The turning of the season on Camaloon is the most breathtaking thing you’ve ever seen._

_“Beats the view below,” you turn at the voice to find her standing next to you. Her brilliant red hair like fire, glinting gold in the fading sun's light._

_“Manvette,” you acknowledge quietly, a gentle humming peace clouding out everything else._

_“He refuses to marry,” she says in a gentle voice. You turn to her fully and see the tears brimming in her bright blue eyes, those nearly identical to her brother._

_“He will overcome bachelorhood in his own time Manvi,” the words are laced with humor, the worry she felt for her brother’s wellbeing was endearing._

_“We all know he would marry if his choice was his own.”_

_“And we also all know the need to strengthen trade with the North.” Her despondency makes something in you clench, but you wrestle it into silence. You will be leaving soon. It was time to weaken ties._

_The memory is a vivid one, she had been so insistent that day._

_Your brows furrow,_ had been _insistent?_

 _The world spins and you stumble to regain your bearings. The autumn light fades, a haze crowding over the brilliant view. The gloom thickens, and you see nothing but dense, grey fog._ Smoke _, you realize suddenly. Your lungs begin to burn, tears gathering as it registers._

_You feel fear and panic begin to creep up your spine, so you slam your eyes shut, focusing on what you can hear as you lose all sight. Faint sound hits your ears. You whip around searching for the source as the distant din grows louder and louder. Brows furrow as you try to make it out, smoke and the rattling breath in your lungs muffling the noise. You know that sound, you do, but you can’t place it._

_The volume triples and it registers._ Screaming _._

_You gasp in surprise, eyes flying open as the smoke you inhale fills your lungs, heavy wet coughs stealing your breath and you see her. She’s standing there, eyes blank as she stares over your shoulder. You take a tentative step forward._

_“Manvette?” Her name is a slurred mess, your throat burning even more after speaking._

_“I wish you didn’t have to kill him,” the screaming grows closer, nearly drowning out her words. Blank eyes turn to you, stare burning straight through the clothes you wear and the confidence you fake, and nothing but rage fills your chest._

_You take a step forward, hand outstretched when she–_

“Good morning.” Your eyes fly open, and you see Lorena sitting on the edge of the bed, her face pinches in concern as you regain your breath. “Are you alright?”

“Fine,” you rasp out. Surprise flashes through you at how sore your throat is in the waking world. Subconsciously a hand raises to run fingertips over your throat. Nothing but unsinged skin. You release another breath of quiet relief.

Lorena brings you some sort of sand creature soup that tastes better than most of the slop you’ve been eating. She prattles on, surprising you by announcing that since you had fallen asleep _three days past_ , things in town have been improving.

Three days. You have been unconscious for three days straight. It’s probably fine.

“How is Kiki?” You ask, moving to get up, intent on stretching your limbs and getting some fresh air.

Lorena speaks of Kiki as she helps you wash and dress. Checking over your wounds, you find a sort of dull haze come over you. Lorena’s voice, while pleasant, forces you into the realization that you have no ride off this planet. It had been the one reason for hesitation when blowing up the slaver’s ships. Had there been a better way that protected the kids, you would’ve saved at least one.

“I just…” the catch in her voice has you coming back into the present. Her gaze turns downward, hands clenching and unclenching her apron. “I thank the Maker you landed here, Sage. Fate drew us together.” You snort at her words and regret slams into you immediately. You cringe, but her soft laughter eases the guilt.

“Apologies,” you mumble out, pulling on the jacket she hands you. 

“You do not believe in Fate?” She asks, almost incredulous.

The question pushes a wave of pain through you, a different sort not caused from the wounds littering your skin. People had many names for it, fate, destiny, but your mentors always referred to it like the Kwa did, as the Power of Cosmos.

“No,” you say, settling into the jacket. She moves with you towards the door, intent on walking with you around town. “I don’t believe in Fate.”

She pulls open her hut’s door and brilliant light streams in. You’re blinking rapidly at the nearly blinding change in brightness when you hear her gasp. Concern has you moving in front of her half-blind and then your vision finally clears. As the world comes into focus, it registers that you’re standing face to helmet with gleaming Beskar and a small green… swamp creature?

“Sage?” His voice sounds almost as surprised as you feel.

“Fuck.”


	2. Dine and Dash

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all! Hope everyone's holiday was peaceful (all non-US readers, hope it was a peaceful week!). Shout out to the beta with the bestest (?) Escher84, you're a friggin star.

You’re both frozen. 

Distantly, you hear Lorena’s hesitant fear. She has never seen a Mandalorian before in her life, none of the town has, you reckon. There isn’t much to lure bounties to this planet, and therefore, nothing much to lure bounty-hunting Mandalorians either. Faintly, you wonder what drew him here, almost opening your mouth to ask, when a low, frankly adorable, coo catches your attention. 

Your gaze shoots down to the little creature clutching at the Mandalorian’s leg. You see massive dark eyes staring up at you, and the second you make eye contact, it starts babbling like its life depends on it. Releasing the hold on its companion’s leg, it waves around stubby arms as if making some great point. 

“Aren’t you just the cutest thing I’ve seen in a hundred Coruscant cycles,” Lorena says, her tone adoring, and you think the little green monster notes it because it breaks eye contact with you and turns its attention to Lorena. Then, it starts to toddle forward. 

The Mandalorian scoops it up and into his arms before it makes it three steps. The child and Lorena let out small huffs at the same time. The man pulls the thing closer to his chest, an obvious sign that he would not be passing it to Lorena in the near future. 

“You’re alive.” His voice is a mixture of astonishment and confusion. 

“You know each other?” Kiki appears out of nowhere, and you almost jump in surprise. You reply quickly.

“No.”

“Yes,” he says at nearly the same time. You turn a withering look his way.

“No,” you reiterate before breaking the stare and hobbling in what you think is the opposite direction they are heading. 

“Sage!” Lorena calls, breaking out of her reverie with the child. “Excuse us,” she says apologetically to the metal man and his swamp creature. You walk a little faster.

Had you not been so blindsided, those marked improvements about town Lorena mentioned would sink in a bit more. It’s a transformation that surprises you. The home and business huts stood with open doors and windows, chatter in the air, the smell of food on the breeze. People look happier, as if someone had finally removed the sticks from up their collective asses. 

“Ah, Sage!” A small man calls with more boisterous energy than he appears capable of exuding.

“Jar’ven,” Lorena greets, and you give the mousy man a curt nod. 

“Please, come, sit!” He rushes to the small, dinged table standing in the dirt. “I’ve just made fresh uj cakes!” Lorena guides you towards the table, a protest about to fall from your lips. 

“You’ll want these,” Kiki says with a glint in her eye. 

“He doesn’t make them often,” Lorena goes on. “They are for special occasions.”

“Or as a thank you,” Jar’ven returns, a plate of flat, dense looking cakes that shine from some sort of sticky syrup. “You saved my boy's life,” he goes on, placing the plate on the table with misty eyes. 

You look up at him in consideration, searching for any ill intent but find nothing but genuine emotion. With careful hands, you reach out and tear off a piece of the cake, popping it into your mouth. It’s overwhelmingly sweet, then mildly nutty. With effort, a smile comes to your lips, and you thank the man with a small bow of your head.

Watching him scurry back into the hut your table stands in front of, the state of this little town filters in again. You suppose the lurking danger of child snatchers and a chokehold on the economy must have been pushing people to the brink. The instability is understandable, given the state of things when you’d arrived. Normally, it took more time and a lot more suspicion before changes like these took hold of small towns. 

They must have been at the precipice before you’d landed. Had you not interfered, some sort of revolution would have rocked the town. A familiar fear gnaws at your insides, and you wonder if interfering was the right call. 

_Doesn’t matter,_ you remind yourself. _You’re no longer a Sage, your choices are your own_. The thought both excites and terrifies you. 

“You know a Mandalorian?” You’re halfway through a cake when Kiki asks.

“No.”

“He said you know each other.” Lorena points out and you shoot her a look at the betrayal.

You brush it off with a casual, “He’s a bounty hunter; took my puck once upon a time.”

“You had a bounty out on you?” Kiki asks, eyes wide and curious. 

“She’s had several.” The voice is an unwelcome intrusion, but you don’t acknowledge him. 

“Several?” Lorena looks worried now, eyes questioning. It prompts you to turn around in your seat, face a mask of complete indifference. 

“Any currently?” You ask in monotone. 

“No.”

“Then we part ways in peace.” Spinning back around in your chair, you pop another bite into your mouth.

“What… what is it?” Kiki’s attempt at a whisper falls spectacularly short.

“He is my foundling,” he says with a firm confidence, and you freeze up. 

With a hand halfway to your mouth, the words ring in your ears. A foundling. The man adopted a fucking foundling. Something hot boils in your blood, but you push it down and then out through your nose. The whoosh of air is quiet, but not quiet enough. 

There is an uneasy, awkward silence in the air as no one knows what to say next. To your credit, it doesn’t ruffle you much; silences are only awkward if you allow them to be, and you never have. However, pushing out an aura of collected indifference doesn’t make a dent.

“We should… we should let you two talk.” Lorena finally stutters out after flicking her gaze between you and the hovering presence at your back.

“No need,” you tell her jovially. “We have nothing to talk about.” 

“Thank you,” the filtered voice sparks currents of rage to arch inside your chest. 

By the time mother and daughter have flown the coop, you’ve pushed so much ice into your veins you expect to bring about an early winter. He rounds from behind you, body clinking with every move. The chair scrapes across the ground as he pulls it out then sits with a loud bang as metal hits metal. 

He’s directly across from you, and some part of your mind is convinced this is a fever dream. You haven’t thought about the Mandalorian in years. The day he delivered you to that sadistic usurper, you’d locked every memory with him away, the good and bad. Seeing him now is making the box in your head jump, memories banging on the lid to be released. You keep them at bay.

With falsely casual movements, you continue to make your way through the overly sweet cakes. You keep your gaze on his t-visor, cocking your head in question as you chew. Seconds pass in silence, and it isn’t until his foundling’s ears appear over the tabletop followed by the rest of his head that he speaks again.

“You’re alive,” he states. You hum in response. “Thought the penalty for treason was death.”

He’s baiting you, and you know it. Leaning back in the chair, you take another sizable bite, chewing slowly. When you see him fidget minutely, you cock your head the other way, eyes flicking down to the green one as he finally pulls half his body onto the tabletop like a beached whale. He wiggles a moment, tiny arm outstretched. He gets a fistful of sweet cake and shoves it, whole fist included, into his tiny mouth. 

There’s a smile threatening to pull your lips up. The little thing seems oblivious to anything else but the sweet cakes. Tiny teeth peak out from behind his lips as he munches on stolen handfuls. When he pulls away from the middle of the table you lean forward and slide the plate closer to his side, making it much easier for him to reach the dwindling stack. 

Without a word you stand and leave, barely registering the quiet sigh that escapes under the beskar helmet. It’s a short walk back to Lorena’s hut, the familiar door coming into view only a handful of minutes after stepping away from the table.

You haven’t even made it fully inside the door when Kiki pops in front of you.

“Did you talk?”

“No,” you tell her blandly, moving around her small body as you begin to gingerly peel the jacket from your body. 

“No?” Her mother reiterates from the kitchen.

“She says they didn’t talk!” 

“At all?” Lorena calls.

“At all?” Kiki turns the question back around on you.

“Not at all,” you confirm.

“She says not at all!”

Lorena appears then, eyes sad but non-threatening. She gives her daughter a thoughtful look before promptly banishing her from the house. Kiki resists the order loudly, but their argument is tuned out as you methodically strip off the layers you wear until all that’s left is the comfort of a loose tunic. The door slams, and it’s just you and the woman to whom you owe your life. Sitting on the edge of the bed, you begin to unlace your boots.

“Kiki used to do this,” she begins in a quiet voice and your hands still for a moment before you continue on. 

“Avoid Mandalorians?” You quip. 

“Shut down when she got overwhelmed.”

“It’s a useful tactic. Keeps your head on your neck in a crisis.” 

“It also keeps everything inside until you explode.” By her tone you know she won’t let this go. A quick glance up and her face tells you the same. You sigh deeply, kicking your unlaced boots off before looking up to meet her eye. 

“Say what you want to say, Lorena.” The words are tired, any bite in them lost in the haze of exhaustion that’s been hovering over your head for years.

“I don’t know you well, not like I do my daughter, but I don’t have to to see the weight you carry.” Her words are halting, tentative, seemingly afraid she might offend. Or that you’ll lash out.

“We all have our burdens to bear.”

“But not as Fate designed?” She says pointedly.

“We design our own Fate.”

“So the presence of the Mandalorian is by your design?” 

_Fuck_. Now you know what getting played feels like. No wonder you piss so many people off. This shit is annoying. 

“The Mandalorian is not my fate,” you state calmly, fully believing the sentiment. “He is a specter from a history long past.”

“Then perhaps he is here to help bring a new future.” 

This gives you pause. Not because you think Fate has brought you two together, but because if the Mandalorian is here, that means his ship must be also. _Bring a new future indeed,_ you think with just a hint of hostility _._ Mind already formulating the best way to go about it, you send Lorena a sly look.

“You said you were simple,” you say with an undercurrent of good humor. Her words still smart, annoyance rearing up like a spooked horse, but you have to respect her skill. It’s a surprise to find a mind like hers amongst such a simple and humble existence. “I suppose Kiki gets it from somewhere.”

“It certainly wasn’t from her father,” she muses. 

The day continues on in relative peace after that. Your fingers itch for a pencil and flimsi, mind spiraling with ideas you want to purge from your mind. Writing things out allowed your brain to release its hold, freed up more room in your brain for other things. And friggin Maker if you don’t need that space. 

Eventually you admit to yourself that you’ll have to be the one to approach the Mandalorian. Your message had been rather clear when you silently left the table that afternoon. If you want a ride off this planet within the next two to three months, he is your current and only option. 

You’ll speak to him, not because he wants to speak to you, but because you want something from him. All business, no history. This view brings some comfort.

Lorena points you in the direction of the Mandalorian’s ship with a sly smirk on her face that you ignore. Apparently, he had caused quite the stir upon landing two days after you fed their mayor to a hungry mob. The town thought he had been sent in retribution for blowing up the slaver’s ships. There had been talk of giving you up in hopes of appeasing the ‘ _metal warrior man_.’ You’d been right: no one in this town had ever seen a Mandalorian. 

Stepping past the threshold of the hut once more, the sky begins to darken. Unlike some planets, this one lacks spectacular technicolor sunsets. Instead it grows murkier and murkier before suddenly going pitch black. From Kiki’s warnings, you know that’s about an hour from now. 

As you head across the settlement, you nod to the people milling about as they catch your eye. Most look away or flinch back. Your supposed acts of heroism are quickly being overwritten with suspicion and fear. You can’t blame them, a _‘metal warrior man’_ never came to their town until you showed up. 

A quiet gasp catches in your throat as the Razor Crest appears in your vision. You’d just turned a corner and then… there it was, like no time had passed at all. Memories come rushing back in, and your body curls inward as they all hit at once. Pain soaks every one of them through to the bone. 

He’d _seen_ you. For the first time since your family’s death, you’d felt like a real person, like more than just a title. Yes, you’d connected with every Chosen whose way you came, but it was always that—you came their way. The Mandalorian though, he’d come _your_ way. You didn’t understand it, but there had been something inherent from the moment you’d met the tin can. Something in you recognized something in him. It made your ending all the more tragic.

“Hi,” his voice is a rasp, body stilling as you round the corner. 

“Hi,” you reply, and if he’s surprised you’ve spoken, his body language doesn’t tell you. Damn, how did you ever have a read on this man? 

You come to stand across from him, the lowered ramp between you. Curious eyes note the changes to his ship up close. The hull has dings and scrapes, mismatched metal panels from hasty and cheap repairs. It looks like it has seen plenty of fights in the past five years. This doesn’t surprise you. 

“I’m sorry, about earlier.”

“Earlier as in five hours ago or five years ago?” He flinches back but then rights himself.

“Uh… both.” You stare him down hard, eyes dragging up and down his form before turning to do the same with his ship. 

This is not what you want, you realize suddenly. You don’t want to hop on a ship and ride from planet to planet. This time around you’d be purposeless, nothing to lead you away from danger or towards safety. Perpetual wandering has lost its appeal. 

It hits you suddenly that you’ve never had to _choose_ before. Fear, awe, and a twinge of panic compete in some sort of wrestling match in your stomach. Shit, you’ve never been free to choose where you went next or what you did. The endless pull in your gut called most of the shots; and then Grenadia did.

“I—” 

“I need a ride,” you cut him off, eyes hardening. “Closest planet with a passable starport. I don’t have credits on me, but I’m good for it.” 

You aren’t. 

“I didn’t think you would trust me.”

“I don’t trust you, Mando.” Your tone is dripping with a bitterness you should probably reel in. “But if there is one thing you’ve been consistent about, it’s getting me where I’m supposed to go.” You throw him a sarcastic, tight-lipped smile. It’s petty; it’ll work against your ultimate goal, but you can’t help it.

“I’ve got the kid.”

“And?” 

“His safety is my priority.” His tone drops lower, a threat underlining the words, and you raise both brows.

“I expect nothing less between a Mandalorian and his foundling.”

“Five years is a long time,” he begins, and you finally catch on. 

You probably shouldn’t be insulted as he’s simply being a good caretaker, and he’s right—five years is a hell of a long time—but it doesn’t stop the discontent you feel at his words. “I am no threat to your kid, Mandalorian.” 

“And you used to think I was no threat to you.” It’s your turn to reel back.

Frustration mounts as the man’s numerous mixed signals leave you with emotional whiplash. Did he want to speak with you, or didn’t he? _He_ chased you down in the square. _He_ was the one to sit at the table. _He_ started this circus; well, you’re ending it. 

Staying another two to three months stuck in this small brackish town is not your idea of a fun, but it’s worth it just to walk away from him. 

“Forget I asked,” you throw over your shoulder, already with your back to his ship. You hear a coo and little gurgling noises that no doubt belong to his foundling. 

“I know,” his modulated voice mutters. Despite your natural inclination to do so, you don’t turn around. Embarrassment smarts, your cheeks warming slightly. You push the feeling away and focus on fact.

As you get farther away from hearing distance, their conversation goes muted, and you wonder what the two are discussing. Does he understand the baby’s noises as identifiable words? If so, how and when did he learn the language? Is he teaching the child these words? Is language a genetically ingrained trait inherited by his species?

You’re so deep in these spiraling thoughts that you don’t recognize the growing disgruntlement in those still out as the murkiness grows thicker. At least, not until someone barrels into you, hands grabbing at your upper arms. They drag you a few feet into an alley created by two buildings and slam you into the side of a hut, snarling face inches from your own.

“When is that monster leaving our town, Sage?” The assailant is someone you don’t recognize: a wiry man with a hard life carved deep into the lines of his face. Big orange eyes are narrowed into slits, his thinning hair revealing beads of sweat at his brow. 

“I don’t know,” you reply honestly, voice calm. “Release me, and I won’t harm you.” 

The man doesn’t heed your warning. Instead, he tightens his grip to the point of bruising and gives you a firm shake. When your back connects with the wall again, it sends a spasm of pain as the wound on your side jolts from the impact. 

“Tell me!” He practically yells in your face.

The low simmering frustration the Mandalorian brought out in you burns bright, cauterizing your fear and weakness. Rage bursts like a lava flat right after it, scorching through you until nothing but smoldering anger is left. 

With quick and precise moves, you break his hold on your arms. Hooking your leg around the back of his calf, you use his size against him and spin him face first into the wall. The satisfying sound of his skin smashing into the rough surface sends a snarling satisfaction through you. 

“I have no quarrel with you,” leaning into his side, you whisper the next words in his ear with a quiet menace. “Count yourself lucky for that.” 

You shove him out of the alleyway; he stumbles a few steps before whipping back around. He looks ready to come at you again when you notice a group of townsmen headed your way. The looks they sport tell you exactly where this is going. 

Throwing your head back you let out a harsh pant of angry air. “For _kriff’s sake_!” You howl to no one and everyone. 

You choose flight over fight, the wound in your side and uncontrolled rage you feel good indicators that this will end badly for you no matter the outcome. Beating the shit out of the townsfolk will not make staying in said town for months tenable. 

You hobble between two buildings, squatting down into the corner shrouded in shadows. You keep your eyes locked on the entrance of the alley. Footsteps grow closer and closer until you watch as the group of men run past the entrance, not one pausing to peer into the darkness you’re hidden in. You let out a breath and allow your head to fall back against the dried mud wall behind you. Blinking slowly, your gaze catches on the hazy sky, and you imagine stars glinting, planets and moons bright spots in the total black of space.

You blink, brows coming to furrow as you imagine a sky that seems unfamiliar but known to you all the same. Shaking your head with force, the thought is replaced quickly by the evaluation of the fucking pickle you’re in. 

You’d blown off the Mandalorian with a plan of waiting out planet-side until the next tradership arrived in two to three months. The angry mob around the corner tells you that isn’t going to work. Even if you could calm the townspeople, the suspicion and fear has already been planted. It would only grow from there, sprouting deep roots that would take years to dig up. 

For the first time in years, you’re frozen in indecision. You’ve been stuck between a rock and a hard place more times than you can count, but it was different then—because it wasn’t about you. The role played in every Chosen’s Journey was significant, yes, but it never required you to choose their fate. 

This time, you have to choose your own fate, direct your own journey with nothing to help guide you but your own self. 

You were completely fucked, weren’t you?

“Sage!” The whispered shout had your brows furrowing. “Sage, are you alive!?” Kiki’s whispering really needed work. 

Standing on shaky legs, you pop your head around the corner to see her and—for fuck’s sake. You slip out of the darkness, and as you get closer, you see her with hands cupped around her mouth to magnify her voice. Maybe you should explain what whispers are and why they’re used. 

“Sage!” She runs the few feet to you, stopping short of throwing arms around your injured side, and you are thankful for it. “Berkon got the townsmen up in a frenzy!”

“I noticed,” you quip back, eyes firmly on her and fully ignoring the man behind her. 

“I’m… I’m so sorry,” her chin wobbles and you know exactly how she feels. The moment you realize the world is full of suspicious and cruel people, that they will turn on you in a second for no reason other than ignorance, you never really come back from it. 

You know Kiki is no stranger to hunger, born and raised in a dying town. She’s been kidnapped by slavers for kriff’s sake. But you’ve known betrayal of the deepest kind, and to find such ignorance in your own neighbors, in people you thought you knew, that is a different kind of pain. A deep and harrowing understanding of the type of galaxy you all live in. 

“Not your fault,” you tell her firmly, stooping to get eye to eye with her. “Not your fault, none of it.” She nods but doesn’t look as if she believes you.

“Mom is trying to reason with them,” she adds helpfully. 

“Tell her not to bother. Their minds are made up.”

“How do you know?” 

“I was a Sage for a very long time, most my life in fact,” you inject false cheer into those words, as if the past tense doesn’t tear at something fundamental in you. “I’ve seen this a hundred times over, and there is nothing for it.”

“But you saved us! You saved all of us!”

“That doesn’t matter now.” You refrain from telling her men are like goldfish – their memories short and ever changing. 

“I’ll take her off world,” the Mandalorian pipes up, but you don’t look at him. 

Kiki looks bashful, hands wringing in front of her and you smile at the familiar pose. You’ve made it more than once in your life.

“I… I kinda yelled at him,” she spits out and if you were a bit more stable at the moment you may have laughed at her words.

“I’ll take you to the nearest starport,” he declares. “No charge,” he adds after the silence between you stretches too long.

He’s deathly still, not even his cape flutters in the stifled air, and a part of you wants to invite Kiki and her mother to join you. They deserve more than what this town will give them. You push the thought from your head. This is their home, for better or worse. 

The sound of footsteps is heading back your way. You turn to see the faint hint of darkness; you blink and when your eyes open again, it’s to the pitch black. Your hour is up. The three of you stand there in silence, then little beeps echo out, and a light on his wrist illuminates the area. When he speaks, his voice is hard, absolute. As the words register, a part of you wants to fight him on it.

“We leave now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't use it much, but I do have a Tumblr! Haven't posted fics on there, just reblogging shit from all my ships. As my tagline reads: I'm just here for the ships XD Anyway, hit me up if you so wish, I am known as 'youkno-thatperson' 
> 
> Thank you all who review, I've been rereading your amazing comments when my depression hits hard and it brings so much joy! Y'all are the best <3


	3. The Uninvited Guests

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's like it was six years ago, but reversed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once more and forever on, my Beta kicks ass. Looking at you Santa Daddy.

You follow the Mandalorian back to his ship silently, Kiki trailing behind the illuminated path he creates, light cutting through the thick darkness easily. You turn to look at every junction, body taut with tension as you remain vigilant for any lurking threats.

You hope Kiki will say goodbye to her mother for you. It’s difficult to leave them behind, you realize suddenly. The feeling of attachment is unfamiliar, so seldom felt in your life that to feel it now catches you by surprise. 

You’ve only known these people a brief few weeks, but they are, for all intents and purposes, the closest thing you have to friends. Reaching the Razor Crest without incident, you feel the bubbling grief as you turn to look at the young girl. Tears prickle at the corners of your eyes, but you push them back with indignation. 

“Mom’s gonna be sad,” she notes, voice somber but holding no resentment. 

“As will I,” you say, and her little face lights up minutely. 

“Thank you, again, for… you know,” she stammers out, and it’s the least composed you’ve seen her since the slave ships. You lean down to her height, making sure to catch her eye.

“And thank you,” you say warmly, “for yelling at him.” You thrust a thumb in the Mandalorian’s direction. He doesn’t acknowledge the gesture, simply lowers the stairs on the side of his ship and strides up them a second later.

“Any time,” she says wetly, tears pushing past her waterline to slide down reddening cheeks. Hands fly up in apparent embarrassment and wipe viciously at the droplets carving rivers into her skin. 

“Stay brave, stay smart, and stay alive.” With a tight squeeze on her shoulder, you almost turn to walk away but remember you are still wearing Lorena’s jacket. You barely shrug it off when Kiki stops your movements.

“Keep it,” she says firmly, and you look dubious at the words. “Really, mom would want you to have it.” After a few more seconds of scrutiny, you nod your head in agreement, shrugging the jacket back on. 

“Thank you,” it’s repetitive but genuinely true. 

“Just… remember us, huh?” A loud whoosh cuts her last word off, the Razor Crest engines deafening, and you turn in unison to glare at the man and his ship. In your distraction, Kiki moves forward for a quick but firm hug. Just as suddenly as she grabs you, she’s letting go. Spinning on her heel, she strides confidently through the dark, eyes already adjusting to the lack of light. You watch her go, and something in you yearns to follow after, yearns for something familiar.

 _Familiar is the enemy,_ a voice whispers, and something deep in your gut clenches. _To be comfortable is to be stagnant._ You’re beginning to wonder how many of these fucking hang-ups will pop out of nowhere to haunt you. 

With a firm headshake, you refocus on the issue at hand—you have to climb into that tin box, _again_ , with that tin man, _again_.

The thought is an ugly one; the shiver it sends up and down your spine shaking you out of your skin. _Fuck_ , how in Maker’s name did you think this was a good idea? It feels like sheer stupidity. Were it not for the literal mob on your ass, you might have blown him off. 

With those big thoughts, you turn and stomp up the stairs, steeling your nerves as the thought of close quarters with the Mandalorian threatens to topple them. By the time you’ve made it to the bottom of the ladder, everything in you warns against climbing it. 

With a jolt, the ship lifts off, and you are thrown violently to the side, grabbing onto the ladder rungs to steady yourself. Perhaps a seatbelt is the best option—shitty company notwithstanding. Heaving yourself the few feet up, your head pops through the hatch just before you break atmosphere. 

In a blink, you’re strapping yourself tightly into the co-pilot’s chair. Something in you feels like this should be reminiscent of days past, but enough time has passed, and enough damage inflicted upon his ship, that it feels foreign. 

The clear darkness of space is stretching in front of your eyes, stars dotting the blank backdrop. You marvel at it. Distantly, you hear his explanation of doing a hyperjump towards a planet he knows can refuel and restock the ship. He would drop you off in that quadrant. 

As he pulls you into hyperspace, the stars streak past you at dizzying spreads. Your last ship had a few windows, but none with this expansive of a view. Well, aside from the cockpit but your visits there were few and far between and usually resulted in broken bones and multiple contusions. 

You settle in, a quiet calm rushing over you that is only jarred when your eyes catch the back of his beskar. Focusing your eyes on the wonders of space feels like the better of the options. The silence stretches. He cut through it at the twenty-seven-minute mark, right after you exit hyperspace.

“Where to?” 

It’s the most innocuous question, especially from the kriffing _pilot,_ but it sets you off like he’s just insulted you. 

“Closest Starport.” You reiterate to the back of his chair.

“The girl—”

“Kiki,” you supply.

“Right,” he says dubiously. “She said you don’t have any credits.” 

“I told you I am good for them.”

“That’s not what I—” he cuts himself off with a harsh breath. “What good is a Starport if you’ve got nothing?”

“I’ve usually got nothing; I’ll figure it out,” you say coldly. Defensiveness is rearing its head again. 

The truth is you have no idea what the fuck to do now. The realization has been settling in for days, probably weeks, but in this moment, you feel blindsided and twice as terrified. You’ve never been purposeless before, never _not_ believed that the Power of Cosmos would lead you where you needed to be. 

That’s the other problem—you’ve never felt it as a _want_ ; it has always been a _need_. As a Sage, your life was not your own, so you never lived like it was. Your purpose was clear; there was no need to want. 

It’s the foundling that knocks you out of your head and back into the cockpit. He’s taken to cooing from his floating bassinet. He doesn’t look terribly comfortable with your presence, his ears plastered back to his head looks almost suspicious. Big, black eyes flick from you and then purposefully to his protector, back and forth, mouth going a mile a minute. 

“He’s not used to anyone but bounties in that seat.”

You’re about to bite out a response when the sound of blaster fire hits seconds before the shots do. The ship groans in protest, metal screeching as you come under heavy fire. Even with the seatbelt on, you’re jolted and thrown around in the seat. 

“Hold on!” It’s the only warning he gives before barrel rolling the ship, and you’re upside down before his words even register. You watch the firefight through the front shield with wide eyes, ships you don’t recognize twisting and flipping as the Mandalorian begins to shoot back. 

“Who are they?!” 

“Bounty hunters!” His voice is strained. 

“You have a bounty out on you?” 

“It’s complicated!” He maneuvers the ship to avoid more damage. 

“What, did you need a ride from yourself?” 

You watch as he jerks the controls to the right, the ship obeying orders and promptly throwing you into the seat, _again_. Pain radiating from your yet unhealed wound, _again_. Fuck, that thing would never stitch itself back together at this rate. If everyone could stop slamming you against walls and threadbare co-pilot’s chairs, you may not bleed to death. 

“I’m headed for the closest planet!” He says like you have any brain left to give a shit. “We’ll hit atmosphere in sixty seconds!” Again, you don’t need a play by play, you just need him to drive.

Another barrel roll, and you watch the flying bassinet go careening across the cockpit, slamming into a wall. Sparks leap from the now broken components, and you tense up as it falls to the floor. Then, it rolls to the hull hatch, rocking on the edge. 

It stills, and so do you. 

In slow motion, the bassinet falls through the hole, disappearing into the hull below.

 _“Shit!”_ You bite out, the word ripping from somewhere deep in your chest. Before your logical mind can catch up, you’ve unbuckled the harness and leapt for the ladder. If the Mandalorian says anything, it’s drowned out by the loud booming hits the ship takes. 

You stagger, slamming into walls at bruising speeds as you stumble down the hatch. The ship jerks into a steep dive. Your hands grip the bars hard enough to leave deep imprints across your palms as your lower body is thrown from the steps. A yelp escapes from your mouth, and you duck your head, barely missing the fallen beam it would’ve slammed into. 

A small cry cuts through the din, and you slide down the ladder, feet hitting the metal floor with so much force it shakes your bones. You breathe heavy, a panting that fills your lungs with nothing but rising panic. The cry sounds again, and you zero in. 

“Hey little guy!” You call, stumbling towards the peaks of green you see gripping onto the netted crates. You’re an arm’s length away, fingertips bridging the gap, and then suddenly, he’s ducking around the other side. 

“This fucker,” you grit out before yelping. You’d gripped the netting a second too late and were slammed into the metal crate for such an egregious error. “Look… _kid_ ,” you stutter, realizing you don’t even know its name. “We need to get you strapped back in!” 

The smile stretching across your face is painful, muscles you rarely use. For a moment, you wonder if the bared teeth actually convey anything like the smile you’re aiming for. Probably not. 

The ship lurches and your face hits the crate for a second time. You swear to _everything that is holy_ —

The kid appears no closer to moving towards you than before. Irritation spikes high, adrenaline fueling the emotion until it’s burning a hole through your chest. Decision made, you swing around the crate and snatch the kid right off the netting. 

He screeches out as you tug hard enough to break his grip. Another barrel roll and gravity is suddenly on your side. Tangling your feet and free hand into the net, you watch as the child falls firmly into your hand. Grunting with effort, you tuck him into your chest, then yourself into the corner. 

“There,” you breathe out as the ship rights itself. “That wasn’t so bad, huh?” Despite your words, he continues to struggle.

A harsh breath of frustration comes snorting out of your nose.

“I know, very lady-like,” you mutter, eyeing the ladder. Pressing the wiggling creature tighter to your chest, you evaluate. It’s a veritable minefield. The floor is covered in crates, broken and whole, rations, and is that… ah shit. 

In the chaos, you’d failed to notice his armory doors were damaged, and weapons normally tucked into the cabinet, _safely_ , are roaming the open space of the hull. It’s especially appealing when you spot a gun the width of your thigh skittering across the ground. You can’t actually hear the charge in the capacitor, but the faint glow cues you in.

“Put the safety on your damn guns!” You scream out, eyes tracking the weapon’s path.

The ship starts to rattle with urgency. All that shit he’d just pulled was like a smooth ride compared to these vomit inducing bumps and shakes. You’ve hit the planet’s mesosphere. 

By the crescendoing sounds of rattling metal, you’d wager the next shot will breach the hull. This is the ‘ _burn it to shit_ ’ layer of the atmosphere. If you don’t make it planet side before it gives way, the depressurization will kill you instantly. 

You’re fucked, well and truly fucked. This is not how you thought you’d die. You look around the space again, spotting the carbonite cabinet, and reassess. Close enough to how you’d thought you’d die _,_ you amend to yourself, eyes flicking down to the little one in your arms. 

The little one who, by the way, is still screeching and struggling like you’re here to claim his damned soul. 

A harsh wrench to the right and that big scary gun is slamming into the ramp’s control panel. The mechanism shatters, pieces hitting the floor to join the veritable shit storm of junk flying around. 

If you live, you’re going to formally recommend the Mandalorian double plate any and all control panels on everything he owns. 

“Focus,” you hiss out, eyes locking onto the ramp. “Please don’t open, please don’t open, please do— _son of a bitch!”_ You dive behind another crate as a flash of red reminds you of the loaded gun skidding across the floor, slamming into walls, and now leisurely firing lasers in no particular direction, apparently. 

The shots ping on every surface so fast, you can’t track it with your eyes. Sparks dance like a welder’s workshop as it slams into the metal-coated ceiling, the floor, the walls. It makes its way across the entire cabin before burning a hole into the… ah, shit. 

“You know—” you cut the words off, unsure what there even is to say. “Can you give a bitch a break?!” 

_Screeeeech!_

Shit, that didn’t sound good.

In the precious few seconds you’ve spent trying to not die via laser fire, the ramp has decided to send its most prominent middle finger your way and begins to lower. The seal breaks, and air rushes through the cabin causing even more chaos. Well, you must’ve made it far enough into the atmosphere: no boiled blood, and the air, while wild, is still breathable. 

You jump at a sudden slam and see the ramp has closed again. Then it opens a fraction, slams shut. Open, shut, open shut. 

“Oh make up your damned mind!” You shout, an incredulous sort of numbness glancing off you before the smell of burning liquid hits your nose. 

Eyes flying wide, your body jerks to move out of the way as the smell registers. That forgotten blaster shot is melting through the cooling hose. That means the engines aren’t being cooled. That means a build up until— you yell, body curling in protectively as another spike of adrenaline hits you seconds before the conscious realization does. 

The blast throws you and your still-struggling cargo–for _fuck’s_ _sake_ kid– into the wall. But you don’t stop moving. That feeling in the pit of your stomach that says you’re falling sends confusion whipping through you. Uncurling slightly, you chance a peak as to why. 

It’s an out of body experience, plummeting to the ground on a broken ship ramp, watching the Razor Crest continue on without you or the kid.

 _Guess it made up its mind,_ you think blandly of the ramp you’re clinging to like the life raft it is. _Well, it was probably helped by the severe damage the outside of the ship took_ , you counter yourself. You figure it’s your last few thoughts, what with being in a freefall and all. 

Closing your eyes tight, you curl in once more until your cargo is tucked under your chin, both arms crossed around him. Fingers search out any curvature in the metal to keep you both anchored. 

“I’m sorry,” you mumble, voice lost in the roar of air around you. 

Finally, the metal finds home on the planet’s topside, but you don't slow. Cold and white fly in the periphery of your view, and _of course_ you have to land on a fucking snow planet. Maybe it had been too much to hope for a peaceful seaside resort. 

The forward momentum of the ship sends your impromptu sled careening forward as well as down. You skid across the snow like a skipped rock across a pond, crying out as pain radiates out to consume you whole. Finally, the ramp slows.

You and the kid don’t.

You’re flying again, this time only inches off the ground. You’re soaring over snow, body skimming across the surface, kicking up fat flakes as you go; then suddenly, you’re still.

Ah, the end of the ride would be slamming against a snowbank with whatever leftover momentum you’d been gifted. 

For a minute, you just lay there, re-cracked ribs screaming out as you breathe. The cold hits your lungs too, but there’s no room in your brain for any more pain signals. They’ll need to take a number and get in line.

Time becomes meaningless as you fade in and out of consciousness. Maybe you should be clinging to what little awareness you have, but that seems ill advised. You’d like to spend the few seconds of your life that remain _not_ writhing in pain and freezing your bruised ass off. Death itself doesn’t scare you like it used to, but the lizard brain still struggles, still pulls in broken and bloodied breaths. That’s okay, you’ll let that ride out while you think happy thoughts. 

Eyes slide shut and you try to conjure your parent’s faces, your brothers, your sisters. A family long ago lost but rarely mourned. There never seemed time to properly sort the pain of watching them die. Indisputably, a landmark trauma—your first, but certainly not your last. 

Moving on, you flip through the memories of your early days with the Sages. The smell of flimsi in the air, the gentle sway of the trees, warm puddles of light through stained glass windows—small things that at the time seemed so insignificant. Now though, they keep you company like they have for years. 

The scene melts into a small hut with a rickety bed and a mother whose daughter is a little too prudent for her age. You don’t see them, but you feel them, feel the way they put you at ease after half a decade of the opposite. It’s like a cocoon wrapping you up and hiding you away from cold snow and loose blasters. 

_“Oof._ ” 

What little air remaining in your lungs is punched out as a certain green demon–you’ve decided that must be his species– pushes all his strength into his legs. Which are, incidentally, connected to his feet; feet which are currently planted like a claiming flag in your fucking diaphragm. 

Reality rushes back. So does the pain. 

“Fuuu-uck,” you stutter out as you move to sit up. Can you sit up? Struggling, you maneuver into a reclined position with your back against the snowbank. You slam blurry eyes shut as rolling nausea threatens to bring what little you’ve eaten back up. 

In through the nose, out through the mou— _nope._ You slam your mouth closed, but it’s too late. Vomit rushes up your throat, and you turn to the side just as it breaks through the seal of your lips. 

There is none so miserable an experience than vomiting with broken ribs. 

Those ribs creak in protest as your body winds up to expel what little is left inside your stomach for a third time. Tears run down your face as every pain signal demanding attention triples. Nothing exists in this moment but the all-consuming burn of stomach acid in your throat, your nose. 

Dark spots dance in front of your eyes as you drag freezing air into your lungs. The cold could have soothed the burning the pain, but of course it’s more like chugging citrus cider after scrubbing your fucking teeth. Hands fly out in a steadying motion as you twist deeper and fall forward, knees twisting under you, sinking further into the snow. Gasping breaths rip through you, panic strolling in like the uninvited guest it is. 

_You must calm the maelstrom;_ her stern tone instructs you. _What good are you if panic takes your logic?_

The sob you let out only cuts into your shallow breathing even more. Nothing could have prepared you for the absolute fear that courses through your body as you take in less and less oxygen. Eyes open wide and lock onto hands partially buried in snow. 

_What can you see?_ She demands but you have no breath to speak the words. You think them instead. Hands, snow, blood, jacket, tears.

 _What can you touch?_ Your fingers grip hard into the snow, numbing fingertips sliding across a jagged edge: rock, cold, snow _._ You rip one hand out to grip your jacket– cloth _._

 _What can you hear?_ Eyes slam shut to direct all focus you have left. Wind, snowfall _…_ running water? Your brows crinkle in surprise, having expected the whole planet to be frozen solid. 

_What can you smell?_

“Nothing,” you mean for it to be a snarl, but half the word gets caught in your throat. 

_What can you smell?_ She asks again, and you take a deeper breath in through your nose, all focus pivoting to identify what you can smell. 

“Fire.” Head cocking to the side, you breathe in again. “Metal.”

 _What can you taste?_ You flick your tongue around in your mouth and find what you expect.

“Blood.” 

You take another deep breath, then another, and another until the swelling panic in your chest begins to fall. It takes a while to put yourself back together, to reach out and pull back your strength and resolve. 

By the time you’ve regained some sensibility of your surroundings and yourself, you’re alone. No green or brown spots in sight, just the still smoking ramp-sled and a field of bright white. Fear pulses through you, a painful clench in your stomach as you evaluate how far he could have gotten, how long he can last in this climate, and how capable of movement you really are.

You shouldn’t have told the Mandalorian you were no threat to his foundling—you’re going to kill that demon baby.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CRITICAL HIT


	4. Shit Happens (Again)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe one day your ribs will heal. But probably not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You wanna know why this is in the correct tense? Escher betas like a boss.

Melting snow is sinking into your clothes, what little body heat you have left coaxing the solid into a liquid. If you stay here, you’re dead. 

Squinting up at the cloudy sky, your mind whirls, trying to form conclusions with nothing to go on. Determining the time of day—and subsequently how much time you have until nightfall—is nearly impossible. Despite that, there is one truth almost universally accepted: once a sun goes down, it gets colder. 

“Okay, we can do this,” you murmur to yourself. Planting one hand on the ground to help leverage you up, you press the other firmly against your ribs as counterweight. “We just gotta stand up. We can stand up, can’t we?” 

Easier said than done. There is nothing within your eyeline that could be used to support you. Once you’re up, you’ll have to keep yourself up by… sheer force of will, maybe? You wish you had more of that to spare.

You lean back slowly until you’re resting on your haunches, fingertips skimming the snow in support. Gingerly, you bounce a bit to test the strength in your legs. With a harsh grunt, you push all power into your legs and rise, crying out instantly. 

“Shit, shit, shit, _sh—”_ You stumble to one side, then the other, coltish legs barely supporting you. Like a novice on a tightrope, you stick arms out wide to help your center of gravity. If those arms would stop shaking and falling every few seconds, they might actually help your balance problem. 

Maybe momentum will help. Like riding a speeder bike, it will be easier to balance once you’re moving. With another stuttering inhale, you take a painful step forward, then another and another. It’s certainly not the smoothest gait, arms twitching out in panic as your balance teeters precariously. 

Your foot rises, leg shaking with effort, but when you go to place it down, it lands on an exposed patch of ice. The soles of your boots are long worn down and do nothing to help grip onto the slick surface. Just as suddenly as you’re stumbling, you’re falling. White snow rushes up to meet your face, a scream trapped in your throat. 

Landing face down in the snow doesn’t hurt as much as you expect, the ground buried so far below you just sink further into snow. If it wasn’t fucking freezing, it might even be considered comfortable. With effort, you roll yourself over onto your back, eyes once again stuck staring at the cloudy sky. You’ll need to move, but maybe if you take a moment to rest, it will be a better round two. 

A part of you is annoyed that the Mandalorian hasn’t hunted you down yet. Surely after all this time, he has to know you and the child are missing. Wait, your brows furrow, how long have you been out here? Estimating time is not one of your strong suits, and due to the amount of damage your body has taken, any remaining sense of time has vanished. 

Eyes slide shut, and you take another fortifying breath. Just as you finish a deep exhale, something tickles your nose. Lashes flutter open, and you see tiny flakes of snow swirling above you. 

“You know, I’d rather be fighting off those near-sighted scrap piles than freezing to death…” the words are harsh, throat raw. “If you’re taking requests, that is,” you tack onto the end when the universe doesn’t respond. 

The universe isn’t going to help you. It won’t drag your ass out of the snow or pitch in to find the foundling. You are your best chance at survival, and the kid’s _only_ chance at it. Which, of course, means you’ll have to suffer a shit ton.

What’s new.

You begin the process of getting to your feet for a second time. It looks annoyingly like your first attempt: lean back on your haunches, bounce to test your strength, push up with all your might, stumble around like a drunkard. It’s all very familiar. 

Eyeing the ground with more suspicion, you make sure to avoid any exposed ice patches, moving gingerly around uneven ground. You have a sneaking suspicion that if you fall again, you won’t be getting back up. You either stay on your feet or die on this Maker-forsaken planet.

No pressure. 

“Alright kid, I’m coming for you.” A snorting laugh escapes you at the realization that such a sentiment is probably why he ran to begin with. You’re trying not to be insulted, but something about his suspicion smarts. 

There is absolutely nothing as far as the eye can see. The landscape is nothing but uneven ground and haphazard mounds of snow, not a single refuge in sight. For a moment, you wonder where in the world—literally and figuratively—the kid could have gone. Then you remember. 

You’d heard running water, halfway to blacking out from a panic attack. If there is melted snow, there is some source of heat. It’s not much to go on, but it’s the best you’re going to get. 

You squeeze your eyes shut to listen, sorting every sound around you until you hear it; off in the distance is the tinkling bell of trickling water. It seems to be coming from… you pinch your lips, turning your head slowly, body belatedly following. 

There. To your right. 

Your eyes snap open again, face pointing towards a new destination. There’s nothing to see, an endless stretch of white like every other direction you look. Lifting your feet, you begin the shaky trek, body aching with every step you take. He couldn’t have gone far, which is good; you’re not going to make it very far either. 

_Put it away_ , she barks out as you circle the drain in your own head. _You know how to,_ she reprimands, exactly the way she’d said it the first time. 

But she’s right—she always is. You do know how to put it away, to push everything into a box that will stay locked away until you have time to dig it out and rummage through. A step, then another step, another. It’s a rhythm now, a dance as you stagger this way and that. 

The sound grows louder and louder until it is a muffled roar, and then suddenly, the ground disappears. 

Your heart stops before kicking back at triple speed, adrenaline causing you to wrench back as you register the gaping chasm carved deep into the snow. It stretches as far as you can see in both directions, towering walls of ice obscured by steam. There must be a hot spring below. 

A distant cry echoes off the frozen walls, and hope blooms in your chest. 

“Now I just need to figure out how the hell to get down,” you mumble, evaluating the terrain before catching sight of a few areas carved away that can act as a path. 

You set out at a slow pace using the wall as an anchor to keep you upright. Thankfulness sweeps through you as features in the ice wall leave useful handholds. You estimate you’re halfway down when the air starts to warm. 

The steam is getting thicker, obscuring your vision, but the steps you take are so small it does little to deter the journey. Your feet land on the final step and you’re surrounded by a cloud of white. You never want to see the color again. 

Adrenaline is starting to wane, but you push on. The air is thick, hard to draw in, but at least it’s warmer. The heat rejuvenates you somewhat, body no longer fighting internal bleeding, external bleeding, _and_ cold. 

“Kid!” You call out, hands disappearing from sight as you plunge them into the haze. That small cry echoes out again. “All right, all right, I’m coming!” you call, cursing under your breath as the thick air makes it harder to inhale. 

You take a deeper breath, agitated ribs protesting with a debilitating arch of pain. Following the sounds of his gurgling gibberish, it strikes you suddenly that you’ll have to climb back out of this crevice at some point _. Fuck._

That feels like a problem for ten minutes from now. 

Steam lifts away somewhat, and you finally see what’s causing it. Cracks in the ground gurgle with hot water, creating tiny riverbeds that wind in every direction. The obsidian tips of exposed rock dot the area, and you investigate with the soles of your shoes. They are rough enough to give you the grip you need to walk across them with confidence. So you move from rock to rock, eyes plotting your course as you go.

You note the pops of color that decorate your path. Purple flowers bloom in patches of ice white, life growing in the small fissures branching off from the larger river flow. For a moment, your eyes are locked on the open petals.

Then, you spot the kid. 

Warm water hits you like a mist as you get closer. Ears plastered back against his head, the demon baby is creeping towards a minuscule cave formed by an outcropping of those same obsidian rocks, water flowing in front of its opening. When he finally spots you, he slips between the waterfall and the rocks, jamming himself further into the hidey-hole as you approach. 

“Nice find,” you begin, pitching your voice as low and soothing as you can. “Definitely warmer down here,” you go on and suddenly the hair on the back of your neck is standing on end. 

You look around the area with narrowed eyes, body tensing as the sensation of being watched hits hard. Looking back at the kid you smile and nod, but he says nothing in return, so you keep goading. 

You promise him everything you can think of: more sweet treats, your promise to leave once the Mandalorian finds you, fixing his bassinet—which is a straight up lie; you have no idea how to fix that shit—but nothing works. 

Tucked snugly behind that waterfall, a part of you wants to believe he’s safe here; that you could leave the little guy tucked away, and he would be fine. He wouldn’t be, though. The hair on the back of your neck is telling you that if there is plant life down here, there could be other kinds of life too. The steam obscures anything farther away than a few meters. If you stay here, you’re sitting ducks for anything that knows how to use it to their advantage. 

Communicating this does nothing to persuade him. It’s obvious now, that no matter what you say, the little one will refuse to move. 

Your lower back thumps against the rock next to the waterfall. You let your legs fail. Your listless descent ends when your ass meets the ground. 

_Fuck,_ you’re tired. 

White fills your vision, steam curling and twisting as it winds higher and higher, and you wonder what it feels like to be nothing but wisps of reality. Vapors have no purpose or plan, just particles that exist to change their form and the landscape around them. They’ve been water, been ice, but now they are wisps of steam. 

Why? Because they met a force so searing, they had no choice but to reform entirely. 

Your nose twitches as something slides down your neck, irritating the sensitive skin there. Skimming fingertips over the spot, you follow a trail all the way up to your cheek. When you pull them away there is the shimmer of water and the smell of salt. The waterfall, maybe? You feel something push free from the corner of your eye and slip quick like lightning down your cheek. 

“Tears,” you correct absentmindedly, head cocking in contemplation. You smear the saltwater with your thumb, watching as it’s spread so thin across the pad of your finger it disappears entirely. 

“Oh,” you breathe out, the realization dawning slowly. 

The next breath you suck in stutters, a hitch in your breathing that has nothing to do with broken ribs. You sort through all the signals wailing in your head and finally notice the blooming pressure that’s pressing behind your nose and eyes. 

“Shit.” A sob is climbing up your throat, nausea following close behind. “ _Fuck, fuck, fuck!”_ You grind out between trembling lips. 

You have nothing left to give, whatever well of strength you had has run dry. It’s been a long time since the days before darkness, and there are only so many hits a person can take before there is nothing left but pain and violence and death. 

Understanding falls like a dead weight in your stomach. Kids can sense those kinds of things, right? He’d probably seen your darkness long before you’d even seen his face. 

“I’m sorry,” you say out loud, voice cracking as your vision dances. 

He gurgles back, but you can’t turn to look at him, your neck has gone soft and you don’t know how to pick it back up. 

“Yeah,” you whisper, eyes glazing over. “I’ve done a lot of things I’m not proud of, kid,” you mangle out; this final confession is one you want someone witness to. 

In your head, it’s a scrolling rolodex of faces and planets and names long-ago stuffed away. They aren’t all failures of commission, but shameful failures of omission. Grenadia and her crew hurt a lot of people in the years you were with them. You’d tried, in the beginning, but eventually trying began to look a lot like closing your eyes and pretending it had nothing to do with you. 

This was penance, then. You began by becoming death in attempts to right your many wrongs but succeeded in doing nothing but further damage. A fitting end, this is; you were never supposed to live this long anyway. 

You hear a deep, terrible growl, and your eyes fly wide, adrenaline glands sputtering in response. The kid whimpers in fear, and suddenly, indignation and anger slam into you. 

“You see!” You garble. “This is why, questionable or not, I am your best bet.” You use gravity to help shift, throwing your legs over to the side and rolling onto your knees right where he slipped in. You peer into the narrow space between black rock and falling water. Warm droplets hit your face, but that doesn’t bother you; your cheeks were wet anyway. 

“Look, I don’t know if you can see into my soul or you’re just a stubborn son of a bitch,” he makes what seems to be an indignant sound, but you press on. “But I do know that I’m your only chance of getting back to the Mandalorian.” At the mention of his guardian, the kid perks up, ears rising to half mast, twitching back and forth in—consideration, maybe? 

Another growl echoes off the ice-covered walls, and you whip your head around to see if you can spot the thing. Shifting steam manipulates shadows, condensation collecting in dense, billowing clouds that hang heavy overhead. You’re sitting ducks—blind, _injured,_ sitting ducks.

“Come on kid,” you say, turning to peer at his shape in the dim murkiness, eyes widening to communicate the urgency of the situation. “Oh for Maker’s sake! Either you come with me now or you face this thing by yourself.” You say sternly, jamming a hand through the narrow way, arm extending out until you’ve stretched what little distance you can with broken ribs. 

The growls split into two distinct melodies, and you wonder how many there are. 

Your hand finds nothing but air, so you twist slightly, push yourself lower and closer, body alight with pain as you move. Eyes narrow, staring where you think you can catch his gaze in the murky darkness. They’re going to flank you if they haven’t already. Your window of opportunity is closing. 

“Please kid, let me help you.” The little goblin’s face comes into focus as your eyes adjust and time slows. Big, dark eyes appear, and you drill a look of naked desperation into them. 

One breath, two. 

The growling separates further; they’ll have you cornered in seconds. Your arm shakes, the effort of holding it suspended weighing heavy. When it drops, you won’t lift it again. 

Three breaths, four. 

Rough cloth scratches along your palm, sliding closer and closer. When he makes it to the crook of your arm, you curl it in, then lean back. The little demon baby comes sliding into view. He’s looking up at you, ears plastered back against his bald head. This time, you have no guess for what it means. 

A hiss echoes off the walls. 

“Right, moving on.” 

No time for bonding, you’ve got to fix the whole impending death scenario you’ve gotten yourself into. Your body shoots another shot of adrenaline straight into your brain, the express directive of _move your ass_ received loud and clear _._

The glorious thing about adrenaline is its ability to obscure pain signals. You still hurt, but it’s a phantom pain comparatively. Standing still takes a second, especially while holding something in your arms, but the cave roof helps—you’ve actually got something to help keep you up. Getting legs sturdy again, you turn to sweep the area.

They step into view. 

They’re like the creatures you’ve seen in paintings of old; the beasts that walked planets far before sentient beings did. Snarling teeth, bright red eyes, razor-sharp claws, and skin so thick, no known weapon could pierce it. They stand before you, the perfect embodiment of a predator.

They also happen to be about the size of your palm. 

Well, almost the perfect embodiment of a predator. 

You still skirt around them cautiously; they could fly or spit venom or call in their thousands of cousins. Hugging the kid’s back to your chest, you move in slow, deliberate shifts, staying close to the wall but not backing yourself against it. 

Another step, and the one closest rears onto its back legs and hisses out a garbled little cry, threat clear. Something primal in you lashes out.

“Try me, motherfucker!” The thing takes another step forward, and an involuntary snarl rips from your throat as you take a stomping step forward. Its legs drop back to the ground, teeth tucked back behind its gums. “Yeah, that’s right!” Stepping more confidently, you continue posturing until your back is to the open expanse behind you. 

Taking measured steps back, the steam obscures the little things in seconds. You take five more steps before turning around and hobbling forward. You’ve got no idea if this crevice is safe, if following it will lead anywhere, if there are dangers your size or larger lurking. 

Onward, into the steam.

You trudge through the winding gap, through patches of freezing cold and blistering hot, depending on the amount of water released from the ice. It’s a maze, but you’re making your way through. Then, you hear it. 

Coming to a stop, you turn in a full circle, mapping the area with your eyes. You know you heard something. Another rustle, and you turn to see two sets of red eyes staring out of the haze. With small movements, they emerge from the fog, teeth still tucked, bellies low to the ground. You look at them, then down at the kid, then back to them. 

“Wanna eat ‘um?” you ask in a mock whisper, but he makes a squeaking sound that you take to mean _thanks, but hell no_. 

You turn to address the stalkers directly, voice that same firm, commanding bellow you’d used on them earlier. “What’s your problem?”

They come to a stop at your address, and you feel foolish for wanting to giggle. You remain silent and still, and so do they. Little twitching movements flick their heads to tilt back and forth, eyes blinking with lids that slide from the bottom up. One flicks his tongue out, hitting the tip of his snout before sucking it back into its mouth. 

“Are you going to cause me problems?”

 _“Bliiiirtp.”_ You jump at the heinous sound the thing makes. Fuck, they are so small, how can they be so damn loud?

“Fine, shhhh!” Your eyes dart both ways to make sure nothing was attracted to the sound of baby lizard-speak. “If you promise not to eat me or the kid and never make whatever the hell sound that was ever again, I won’t throw rocks in your general direction.” And with that, you continue on.

They follow you, ten paces behind, and over time it becomes comforting. There is always the chance they are following to watch you be eaten by their mother, who is four times their size. Or maybe, they’re leading you to a rocky cliff’s edge where they can kill you easily before eating your—

“Oi!” You nearly fly out of your skin as the yell ricochets from above. It sounds male. Tilting your head back, the outline of someone appears on a ledge up and to the right. 

Taking a cautious step closer, the steam clears enough to make out an older man in fur-lined everything. You can’t make out much more than that, but something about him has you unclenching. 

With a mental slap, you re-clench. 

Yes, you might only have a few meters walk left in you before keeling over to die in the ice, but that doesn’t mean you’re going to be stupid about strangers.

You know the chances of this guy being a creep, one of the bounty hunters, or the man who kills you and turns you into jerky are rather high. That does not, however, stop you from pulling the hood over the kid’s head and shoving him down the back of your shirt and jacket.

His little hands grip your shoulders hard with sounds of indignation you shush deftly. Bending at the waist and curling inward like a hunchback, you lift a foot to step forward and pause, recalculating. You add a limp into the walk and hobble closer. 

In other words, you’re moving how someone in your condition probably should. 

“I’m coming down!” He declares. 

You look at the sheer ice wall and then at him, forty feet up and choke back a reply of ‘ _alright buddy, good luck with that.’_

He reaches behind him and produces something that looks like a pickaxe. He slams it into the ice just next to where his boots hang over the edge. He swivels, putting his back to you, and lowers himself down on a rope tied snugly into the pickaxe’s threaded handle. He repels with ease, thick gloves saving him from friction burns.

You could go for some gloves right about now.

His boots hit ice and then you’re staring at one another across the expanse, both standing as far away as you can without the steam obscuring the other. You take him in, noting his appropriate garb, the deep red lines that frame his eyes from goggles, his familiarity with the terrain. If, by some true and intergalactic miracle, this guy is a local and can take you where there are healers, you’ll never complain about what a fickle bitch Fate is ever again. 

“Hello there,” he says, voice low and soothing. 

You’re not sure how to play this, but the fact you’ve already taken on a stance that communicates weakness, it’s probably best to play that up. You start to hobble closer, but fingers dig into your shoulder and a wince steals across your face.

“Are you alright?” 

You decide nonverbal is best and simply shake your head in reply, briny tears pushing over the boundary of your lower lids and sliding down in quick rivulets. 

“We saw the ships in the air,” he begins cautiously. You can sense the effort of holding back the accusation in his words. 

You don’t know what happened to the Mandalorian, his ship, or the bounty hunters after him. You don’t know if these locals have already decided he and his associates are unwelcomed. Should that be the case, you’re dead either way. Might as well get creative. 

“Did you come from those ships?” He asks his real question when you don’t answer. 

As a reply, you send him a look that most in the universe recognize instantly: fear. Curling in further, arms crossed over your stomach, you look back up at the crevice and push a tremble into your lips. 

“Are you hurt?” You look away pointedly, and he goes on, drawing inferences. “Did the people on those ships hurt you?” Oh, how you’d like to reply honestly to that. 

You watch his body language, obscured as it is by the layers he’s wearing, and give a gentle nod. His stance opens somewhat at that, but his hand stays hovering by his hip, the way you’ve seen the Mandalorian do. Fuck, you’re going to have to sell this, aren’t you? Good thing you’ve got no pride left.

“P– puhleese, halp?” You say in broken Basic, trying to look just as broken. It’s easier than you’re ready to admit. 

He moves forward, and you flinch back. Instantly, he lifts his hands, holding them in front, palms up. Away from the hip. His body language is entirely open now, tense but less so. He no longer classifies you as a threat. If the universe is feeling generous, you might even trigger a protective response and live to see another shitty steam tunnel. 

Maybe the universe heard you earlier, and maybe, just maybe, it might actually give a bitch a break. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mando back next chapter. Patience my young Padawans.


	5. Vinny and Maria

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Its the simple things in life you treasure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome, one and all, to the reuniting of Reader and *drum roll please* Unconsciousness!   
> Betaed by the best #TheAwesomeEscher

“How did I get here?” you ask no one in particular. Everyone is a bit preoccupied with the fighting, so you suppose their lack of reply is understandable. A man stumbles by you, screaming in terror as a tiny lizard-dragon eats his face. 

But like really, how the _fuck_ did you get here?

You remember Fur Man. He had been so dubbed in your head because the name he’d given you was in a dialect your mouth was incapable of replicating. He led you through iced tunnels with a sixth sense. It had been comforting for all of six seconds, then he’d elected to inform you that the tunnels shift and collapse regularly.

 _“It’s the ice,"_ he’d said. _“It’ll simply melt and reform however it wants, who are we to stop it?”_

You’d asked about the little lizards trotting patiently at your feet. He’d laughed, said they were fairly harmless, but they can sense violence and react in kind. The follow-up questions list is heinously long, but that’s for another time. 

Reaching the surface had been surprisingly uneventful, and for a moment hope sparked bright. Then, the Mandalorian fucked it up by finally getting around to the search-and-rescue efforts. And, because why not, he’d brought with him a barrage of bounty hunters. He looked a little battered, so you think he’s not having a great day either—a small bright spot.

You’d postulate the bounty hunters’ unique variety of weapons had something to do with it.

You’re not sure what the tall, yellowing one is wielding, but it looks suspiciously like a wonky fishhook. It’s rare that something can surprise you these days, but having that something be reminiscent of a broken nose and hurled at your face resurrected the feeling handily.

Fur Man had _loved_ that.

His face had drawn tight with confusion, before turning to you for answers. Instead, you’d let out a long, slow breath and reached behind you to pull up the kid so Fur Man could see a flash of big dark eyes and pointy ears. At his move to grab his gun, you’d spun another tale, one much closer to the truth.

“I apologize for deceiving you,” you’d stated strongly, channeling the New Republic upstarts who’d marched into the town square you’d been scoping out years ago. “We are protecting this child; his well-being is our top priority. I could not compromise his security by sharing the truth. Your actions saved both my life and my young charge’s.” His hand stilled to a hover.

Then a blaster shot got a little too close for comfort, and he took in the scene before him.

“My family—”

“Go,” you tucked the kid back into your shirt. “Our quarrel is not yours.” With as much majestic gravity as you could muster, a deep head nod, and words you made up on the fly, you’d sent him off. “May the suns rise and set as intended, and those who reside under them flourish.” 

You’d felt the kid turn his head, presumably to look up at you and marvel at the absolute bullshit spewing from your mouth. He missed Fur Man slip under the ice like he was nothing but vapor himself.

And now here you are, watching the bounty hunter who’d gotten too close for Vinny’s comfort scream as the little guy shreds his face. He comes trotting back to you after leaving his victim down in the snow.

“Good job, Vinny. Where’s your sister?” Maria appears as if summoned, skittering closer before sliding across the ice and smacking into your ankle. Shooting her a look, you shake your head and turn to appraise the frozen tundra. It now sports a smoldering pile of wreckage and a fairly operational ship parked next to it, so you evaluate.

The kid babbles and you turn to look over your shoulder to find dark eyes watching from under your jacket collar. He assesses the ship he probably thinks of as home and sadness seeps into his expression. You send a look of understanding covered in dusty grief. 

The snow is thinner here, so walking is an easier endeavor. Moving towards the scrap heap, you keep one eye out for the last two bounty hunters running around. You might’ve been more afraid, but your baby dragons are flanking you like a prisoner transport crew. Turning to see the guy whose face got well acquainted with Vinny, you grimace hard at the black veins creeping out from his mouth and barreling down his neck.

Whelp, guess that answers your question about them being venomous or not.

Some slipping here, some sliding there, and you’re stood in front of the ship. Ducking through the massive hole in the side, it occurs to you that a ramp used to live here. Vaguely, you wonder if he’d found it in the snow, repairs likely easier if he had the original door. That is one item on a very lengthy list, you reckon. 

Picking your way over the fucked-up ship, the kid squirms. A few more steps and you’re right in front of the hidden compartment you’d seen the Mandalorian root around in years ago. If that thing is still intact, and you don’t find evidence of any impending implosions, you might have a place to stash the little demon.

Fiddling around a moment, you finally jimmy the door open just enough to see through it if you duck. Lowering to your knees, you peer in to make sure there isn’t some sort of live electrical wiring he can play with. Deciding it looks safe enough, you lift the kid off your back and towards the small window you’ve created.

“You like hiding spots, right?”

Without a single bit of help, he wiggles under the door with a coo.

“I’m going to close this door, okay?” He makes no sound, so you slide it shut with an audible click.

A guttural sound of relief escapes you, and a shaky hand raises to rub at your eyes with outstandingly numb fingers. Carrying and caring for that kid is a weight you’d like to hurry up and forget. Pressing your fingers harder around the sockets, bright streaks dance behind your lids like lightning strikes.

Yelling seeps through the cracks in every wall, and you wonder what’s happening outside.

Hobbling to the ramp entrance again, you peak around the corner to see the Mandalorian trying to fight off those same remaining bounty hunters. As the Mandalorian flies around shooting off blaster shots like they’re free, your brain finally registers who exactly he’s fighting.

One Gorax is a party, but having two trying to bash your skull in, that’s a circus. They’ve taken at least a dozen hits of varying severity, _each_ , but they’re hardy. You know that metal protects him from a lot, but from the looks of it they’re going to ring his skull like a bell and head wounds are a bitch.

For a minute you wonder if he requires assistance. Could you wrangle up a weapon of some sort? Then you remember there is literally nothing left in your tank. It’s likely any attempts to intervene yourself will end in tragedy.

You look down and two little dragon babies look back up at you.

“Wanna kill some guys?” You swear their eyes light up. “Listen very carefully. Those two, that look like your distant cousins, you can have them.” You see a nod and are certain the last of your sanity has fled. “But not the shiny one, okay? Don’t kill the shiny one.” One more firm nod, and you gesture them outside. 

They don’t move.

“Right, I’ll lead you into battle I guess,” you snip. You keep it up, a persistent stream of muttering flows the whole journey you take around the ship.

“It’s not like I’m injured, unarmed, and barely upright. I’ll just walk out there and get shot because your need for moral support is infinitely more impor—” You round the final corner, and they’re gone.

They skitter across the open snow with a speed and dexterity that makes it clear you should be much more afraid of them than you actually are.

Like a well-trained team, they each take one Gorax, climbing their respective targets at record speed. Then, it’s ten minutes ago all over again with both staggering and screaming as Vinny and Maria get to work. It’s an art form, really.

Through slightly spotted vision, you see one leap from a now-still body towards the recently landed tin can. He must see it coming because he flinches back, raising an arm in response. Vinny hits the vambrace with a hiss and the Mandalorian staggers.

“The fu—”

“NO!” You shout, body bowing as you lean heavily against the ship. “We talked about this, Vinny. Not the shiny one, not the shiny one!” Vinny makes that horrid noise again but dismounts his arm, nonetheless.

Shit, these fuckers are unexpectedly well behaved. You’re their mother now, probably. Can they even survive in space? This is the last thought you’re allowed to have while stood upright because you’re suddenly sliding down until snow meets your ass.

Vinny and Maria come scurrying over, and you can’t help the smile that splits your face.

“Well done, you creatures of nightmare.” This seems to satisfy them, both licking their snouts before coming to snuggle into the snow on either side of you. Your neck aches, but you turn to look over the view anyway.

The sun pokes out from behind thick clouds, and your eyes water. Had it not been so frigid, being blinded wouldn’t have been worth it; but as the first few rays hit your skin, you know it is. Closing your eyes, you tilt your head back until it hits the metal siding with a dull thunk.

“Friends of yours?” He sounds equal parts amused and wary, and it’s the tone he should always use when addressing you.

“Mmhmm. Found them in the abyss,” you mutter, squinting to look up at him, but the sun reflects off his armor, and it hurts.

“Let’s get you inside.” Why does his voice sound like it’s echoing off down a tunnel? “Come on,” his voice resonates. “I’m going to help you walk.” Hands slide under your arms and lift you straight up. You groan as everything shifts.

The pain is blinding, and you’re pretty sure you’ve ridden the last adrenaline wave your body has to offer. You should ask how many hits it takes to keep _him_ down. Though, he may interpret that inquiry negatively and leave you to die. You reign the question back in.

“Where is your home world?” His voice is unsure as he drags you along with him.

“Home world?” you ask, nose wrinkling at the words in relation to yourself. The concept is deceptively simple, one you understand the nuances of, but you have too few memories anchored to it for personal discourse. “I don’t know.”

“Born in space?”

“Don’t remember the name.” It’s an honest reply, and you damn the blood loss.

“When did you last see it?”

It strikes you as odd, the question. The phrasing to see it, as if that alone would be memorable enough to sustain. He had his home world, once, didn’t he?

“Was, three and ten, I think.” The phrase is arduous to compile and push out, thoughts starting to slur along with your words.

Your eyes are moving slow, lids sliding shut with a sluggish pull. They open, and you see the wind whipping up snow. You push your eyes shut until the wind is at your back.

Time speeds unexpectedly, and every time you blink it’s to take in entirely new worlds: matte-metal paneling half covered in snow. A gaping hole that reveals the darkened hull. The front of the cabinets you’d rooted through years ago. The Mandalorian’s chest pla—wait, when had he turned you around? Darkness as your vision fades out around the edges.

And then, then, you slide your eyes open again and find a familiar face. Cool metal, cheeks carved two fingers deep, tapering down to a smooth jaw of pure beskar.

“I’m going to try and find you a bacta shot.” The words surprise you for a variety of reasons, but the primary is that they aren’t about his kid.

“Little demon is in the cave.” You’re pretty sure those words were entirely unintelligible.

“I know.”

Letting your neck flop to the left, you suddenly realize the compartment has been opened and sits empty. Blinking, you try to search for the little one only to find him peering at you from across the room.

“Kept him alive,” you crack. “Hard to believe, I know.”

The sound of rummaging pauses for a second before resuming.

The world flits and fades, time stretched long as you sit there, back cool against a spot of smooth metal wall. When he fills your line of vision again, he’s holding a large syringe and you’re pretty sure you’d wince if you had that much muscle control. The thick-gage needle pierces the skin of your neck.

“Son of a _bitch_!” You try to scream but again, muscle control. It’s instinct that has you throwing your fist out.

He catches it inches before it makes contact with the hardest substance in the kriffing galaxy, and for the first time in half a decade you feel gratitude balloon. When he speaks again, that gratitude pops instantly.

“I had something to prove,” he says, the weariness taking his already roughened voice and turning it to pure gravel.

“Don’t we all?” You shoot back without thought.

“No. When I took your puck…the last one,” he adds, like you need clarification. “I was trying to prove something.”

“To who?”

“Shouldn’t the question be “what?” He challenges. An obvious deflection. 

“When it comes to proving something, the who usually matters more than the what,” you tell him with crystalline clarity.

To your surprise, a cool feeling replaces the sting in your neck, and your head is a little clearer.

“You were right. About all of it.”

You say nothing and squeeze your eyes shut tighter, like that will somehow effect your ability to hear. You may be dying but you’re not dead yet and while you’re still kicking, you refuse to be this man’s confessional.

“Man—”

“I turned the kid in,” you suck in a sharp breath. “I went back for him but… I’ll never be able to take that back. I’ll never be able to make that up to him.”

Your instinct is to tell him he probably already has, but you push it aside roughly. You aren’t feeling terribly charitable with a wrecked ship at your back and your body sitting in the freezing cold. Maybe it’s radical honesty time. The words are dangerous, but if everything else is a pile of space junk burning in the night, this conversation might as well be too.

“When you found me, it felt like poetic justice.” Whatever was in that shot is spreading this euphoric haze over everything, and you hope it lasts.

“That wasn’t justice.”

“That’s not really your call, bounty hunter.”

“I’m sorry. I—” he falters, and a rough sound grinds out through the modulator. “For five minutes, hours, and years ago.” 

You’d think someone smashing three, significant fuckups into a nine-word apology would be less compelling, but fuck. Anger and anxiety and empathy and everything else war until you're drowning in it. A door slams shut in your head, like you'd stumbled right through a tripwire. 

Your logical mind reminds you of the facts: he’s a bounty hunter, he was just doing his job, he clearly ended things with you, you owed each other nothing.

But it’s not a problem facts can solve.

You understand, cerebrally, why he did it; you honestly do. But you can’t look at him without some sort of electrical storm firing up behind your ribs. Lightning strikes skitter along your spine, down your arms, looping through your stomach. You turn away, hoping the sparks will sputter out.

“Who?” You say again, voice rough from the cold.

“What?”

“Where, when, why,” you continue the train, and suddenly it’s the funniest shit you’ve ever heard. A snort of laughter, a gremlin-type sound, and it makes you laugh even harder. Suddenly you’re gone, laughter peeling out of you until it’s a haze of abs aching and throat burning as you suck down freezing air.

You don’t turn to look at him, but the silence after your fit is the lightest it’s been since your reacquaintance. The euphoria spreads as you settle down into it, and there is this persistent surety that if you just take a nap, everything will be a little bit better.

“I’ll take care of you,” he says gently, and you shoot him a dubious look.

“Like an ‘Amban rifle shot to the head’ take care of?” He grunts and tenses his body even more, a feat you didn’t even realize was possible.

“Can you travel in this condition?” It’s a rhetorical question—you know you can’t. So does he.

Your injuries are extensive, the broken ribs alone will take three weeks at minimum. The time everything else will take to heal is unknown. You raise your head, eyes critical as you evaluate the man behind the helmet.

Narrowed eyes take him in, take in the ship, take in your condition, and you know. Everything in you riots at the thought, but you have it nonetheless. Worse than that, you believe it.

The Mandalorian is your best bet.

With half your limbs unresponsive, you’re more than a little vulnerable. You hate it, but the fucker is right: you can’t travel in this condition. The problem, of course, is that the thought of traveling with him is nauseating.

“You saved his life,” his voice suddenly loses all warmth, and it’s a comfort. “Consider it repaying a debt,” he throws in. You shoot him an interested look, and a huffing laugh slips out from under his helmet. For a moment you seriously consider his offer.

His ship is a wreck, and you just know, _just know_ , he’ll refuse the perfectly operational one parked right next door; he’d rather stick by his still-smoldering scrap pile and die in space than leave it behind. How quaint. Even if you sign on, you won’t be leaving this planet any time soon.

If you’re stuck here, it would be advantageous to find Fur Man and work your way into the local hierarchy. That last interaction seemed to leave you on good terms, something you can use to your advantage.

It hits you suddenly that you can make this work. More than that, you’re excited for the opportunity. The idea of espionage games sends a shiver of pure joy down your spine. As the euphoria continues to radiate out, it suddenly hits you that maybe it’s the _very_ good drugs running through your system talking.

You surface for a moment and tune back into the room. Vinny and Maria sleep curled into a ball at your side, the kid is happily playing with a silver ball, and the Mandalorian is…cleaning? As you catch sight of him picking up, a half-assed effort at best, you feel the need to clarify something.

“I didn’t save the kid to—”

“I know,” he cuts in, and you consider it settled.

The two of you sit in contemplative silence, your head lulling back against the wall as the last of your strength bleeds out into the still air of the hull. A harsh wind bashes against the side, cold slipping in under the tarps he’s hung up to cover the gaping hole allowing it in.

“Sorry about the ramp,” you hear yourself say, words slurring to the point of being unintelligible. 

“Concussion?”

“All the things...” Those will be your last words for a while, if whatever came out of your mouth counts as such. Your last thought is you really should’ve crawled into the cave over there, it would’ve been warmer. The last thing you feel is a tingling euphoria and the shadow of calm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so it begins.


End file.
